


Wasteland

by feyreofthewildfire



Series: In Our Bones [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, This hurt my heart, nesta goes with vassa to scythia, nesta thinks cassian and morrigan have a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyreofthewildfire/pseuds/feyreofthewildfire
Summary: Nesta knows that she is not needed in Velaris, not essential to the happenings. It’s only been a week since their return and she has yet to do anything. Elain no longer needs her, having found contentment in the garden she begins to grow behind the House. Feyre has become the queen of an empire, needing no one and nothing but her mate.She supposes it could’ve been argued that Cassian needed her not so long ago, but she knows it’s not true anymore. He has his brothers and Mor.So when Vassa asks her to leave with her to Scythia as Emissary after her curse had been broken, she leaves with the queen immediately, only remembering to send a letter to Rhysand at the last moment.-In which Nesta tries to find her purpose across an ocean





	Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ModernBookFae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernBookFae/gifts).



> hey lovelies!!
> 
> this is (gasp) not chapter 11 of wgt, but rather something entirely different! @modernbookfae made this lovely answer on tumblr that had me screaming and forced my hand. as a result, i word vomited this onto a google doc. 
> 
> disclaimer: this got way way way out of hand. lowkey it barely resembles the plot anymore but that's okay because i still love it. 
> 
> enjoy!!

_ Candy coated lips _

_ You’re the sweetest kiss _

_ But a bad trip _

* * *

 

Nesta burns.

Not with strength and fervor as she once had, but with passion and some sort of affection towards that damned overgrown bat. Her hands clench into fists as her chin threatens to fall, the parasitic and festering feelings that have been settling within her since she’d met the commander now the cause of her fall from grace.

Her heart is a fortress and he’s decided to lay siege—or she thought he had. Perhaps it had all been a game to him. He’d barreled through her defenses and instead of finding and cherishing her as she had desperately, fruitlessly hoped he would, he’d walked straight through the other side and left her there—heart wide open like a gaping wound, a ravaged wasteland of broken bits and pieces hidden behind walls erected even stronger than the ones before, giving the perfect illusion of constructed poise and grace.

It’s been two weeks and they have yet to speak. She’s retreated into the library, burying herself in books and characters that don’t exist, if only to rid herself of the reality she so feverishly despises, if only so that she doesn’t run into the blonde Third. 

Nesta is almost ashamed of the way she avoids Morrigan—of the way she avoids everyone. But her dreams—no, her every waking moment, is haunted with the corpse of her father, with the sound of metal crunching through bone as she severs a sovereign’s neck, with the emptiness inside her where power once rumbled, with the sound of Cassian’s screams as Hybern destroys his wings. 

It seems that every part of her is haunted.

Nesta knows that she is not needed in Velaris, not essential to the happenings. It’s only been a week since their return and she has yet to do anything. Elain no longer needs her, having found contentment in the garden she’s began to grow behind the House. Feyre has become the queen of an empire, needing no one and nothing but her mate. 

She supposes it could’ve been argued that Cassian needed her not so long ago, but she knows it’s not true anymore. He has his brothers and Mor. 

So when Vassa asks her to leave with her to Scythia as Emissary after her curse had been broken, she leaves with the queen immediately, only remembering to send a letter to Rhysand at the last moment.

For the first time in a very long time, Nesta feels  _ free _ .

She takes residence on the same ship as Vassa on the way back to the continent, though she’s given a wide berth when she deigns to go above deck during the day. She is not afraid to put her hair up, to show off the delicate points of her ears and the immortal beauty she’d been cursed with.  

When she truly feels alive is when the night comes.

Maybe it’s some remnant of her time spent in her youngest sister’s home or just the fact that it’s the only time she can speak to Vassa thanks to the queen’s busy schedule. The sound of waves over the sea calms her, the slight breeze caressing her face. Were it not for the scrutinizing stares, were it not for the mask she’s forced to wear, she’s certain she’d go above deck during the day. 

Then they dock in Scythia and her fantasy, her adventure is over.

Nesta barely speaks within the walls of the Palais, all too aware of the wandering eyes and ears that poison every corridor and room of every castle she’s ever been. The joy she’d secretly found in the open sea is stifled in the dinners she’s forced to attend and small talk she’s forced to make.

Still, when she does change an opinion of an important advisor, she can’t help but feel important—she can’t help but feel needed. She is an emissary, after all. Her work is truly done in the homes of royalty, far away from the place she supposes she calls home now, if for no other reason than her sisters are there.

The only thing anchoring her back to that place is her sisters and the reports she sends to Rhysand. Letters come in every so often from all three, most commonly from Elain. The tales her sister weaves of the happenings in the House never fail to make Nesta smile, even if it’s only the smallest uptick of her lips. Elain is happy and cared for—more than what Nesta could’ve wished for not even two years ago. 

Then she meets General Fionn. 

He’s young, born of nobility and ancient traces of Autumn Court blood that gives him the smallest power over flame, carefully hidden away in fear of losing his position. His smiles are pretty and his words are smooth. It’s easy to banter with him, given the fact that he only laughs at her insults and poisonous words. It’s easy to find some sort of ally within him. 

When she wakes up from a nightmare of Elain being tortured by Hybern, she asks him to train her. 

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, simply nodding and agreeing. They have to run it by Vassa and Rhysand first, but the Queen and High Lord seem oddly nonchalant about the message their training sessions will broadcast to the world. 

In three weeks she’s worked up into swordplay, her movements graceful and violent—strong and swift, laced with the High Fae elegance that had seeped into her veins from the Cauldron. Her immortal strength gives her the ability to knock Fionn over with nothing more than a shove, and she has to remind herself to hold back so that she doesn’t kill him on accident. While it would be interesting, it would be a shame to lose a friend and create a diplomatic disaster. 

They move from swords to every weapon imaginable in the next two weeks and, occasionally, when they’re alone, she helps him with what little Autumn Court lingers in his blood. She’s by no means a qualified teacher, but he becomes surprisingly proficient at wielding the small bit of fire in his veins under her guiding hand. 

When she pushes him against the wall in the armory and kisses him, she tells herself it’s because she feels something for him. 

Their training sessions become more playful after that. Nesta has already learned how to use every weapon under the sun with decent proficiency, and they just spend hours sword fighting and sparring to pass the time. 

She’s not sure when she begins to wear her hair down, or when her smiles become polite rather than serpentine, only that she’s convinced herself that she’s found home in a pair of human arms and distracting pet names. 

When she pins him to the ground for the thousandth time, she doesn’t realize a smile’s bloomed on her face until Fionn’s eyes widen, a certain kind of reverence filling the blue orbs framed by thick lashes

So she kisses him again, unknowingly superimposing hazel over blue. 

Then one of the other queens invades Scythia and he’s torn away to the western border. 

He gifts her his favorite dagger and kisses her twice before leaving, bestowing upon her promises and promises of what they’ll do together once he gets back. 

They send letters as fast as they can. Nesta has learned how to send letters through whatever magic allows such things to teleport long distances, though has to wait the three days it takes for his letters to get back to her through horseback. Scythia has the finest cavalry on the continent, and the messengers are well-trained and ride well, also giving them the fastest communications on the continent. 

The gaping hole in her heart left by the commander across an ocean has begun to heal over, the wasteland behind the walls beginning to return to what it was once again. Every letter that arrives from Fionn and Elain gives her strength, gives her what she needs to rebuild herself and perhaps one day be able to look Cassian and Mor in the eye without wanting to hide away. 

Perhaps she can find love outside of the small world she’s always found herself trapped within—her small world where love was nothing but a myth, a far-fetched tale told to the daughters that would be sold off like cattle one day.

Then the neighboring queen attacks the camp in the night and slaughters every soldier.

She doesn’t receive a condolence letter, she’s by no means his family or next of kin, but she thinks that perhaps receiving one would’ve helped with the grief, with the pain. 

She doesn’t know if she was in love with Fionn or maybe just who he resembled, but the agony that ripples through her is enough to make her swear off soldiers, any man who walks into battle arms open and swords wielded, ready to greet Death as the old friend it is. 

She shoves the training clothing to the back of her wardrobe and shoves the swords and daggers into a miscellaneous drawer, reverting back to braided updos and serpentine twists of her lips. It’s safer this way, she tells herself. 

The walls around her heart reinforce once again.

Not a week later she’s convinced the last advisor to her side, gaining the support of the Queen’s entire court as she was sent to do. The next day Rhysand is standing in the courtyard, ready to winnow her back to the Night Court. 

If he has something to say, she’s glad that he doesn’t say it. She’s wished all her farewells and her belongings have been packed up, ready to be sent back the moment she arrives in Velaris. 

It’s only been three months, she knows this, and yet the place she’s supposed to call home is utterly unfamiliar. 

Her heart has become a wasteland once again, torn to pieces by the man she’d chosen to give it to. Her words are more biting than before, her eyes more often narrowed then not. Every rise and fall of her chest reminds her of Fionn, of the merry laugh that always fell from his lips and the crisp apples he tasted of. 

Then Cassian finds her.

He’d been off in Scythia helping with the incoming war, showing solidarity in the alliance formed between Prythian and a kingdom on the continent. He’d been her replacement after her job had been done, forcing neither of them to see the other. 

She hadn’t even known he’d been arriving back, or she would’ve locked herself in her bedroom rather than sit in the exposed library. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” The words drip with sarcasm, with an anger barely reined in. His place leaning against a bookshelf seems casual enough, though the crossing of his arms and clench of his jaw tells another story. 

Her eyes flicker up towards him, finding that he looks exactly the same as she’d last seen him. His hair is pulled back and his Siphons gleam in the low light, a sword strapped to his back that makes her sick to her stomach. 

“Commander.” Her voice is void of any emotion, the words monotone. Her hands clench around the book she’d been reading, the only sign of her distress. 

He nods to the dagger strapped to her waist. “You know how to use that?”

She tenses, all the insults she wants to throw at him falling away. “It’s not mine.” She dismisses, standing from her place on the armchair and swiftly beginning to walk away, book clutched against her chest. 

His eyes narrow, arm shooting out to block her path. The intricate sewing of the leathers nearly makes her sway where she stands. “Whose is it then?” He bites back, none of the careful, begrudged concern she’d come to expect in his eyes. There’s nothing but sheer will and fire in them. 

She almost throws up at her own analogy.

“That is none of your concern.” Her voice raises for the first time. She will not fall apart in front of this good-for-nothing bastard. He had treated her as nothing, and she will do the same. She no longer owes him anything. She had been willing to die for him—willing to leave behind Elain. She’d laid her own body over his, looked Death in the eye and blinked.

He had made a proclamation about regrets, about having more time and yet when it had been given to him he hadn’t used it. He’d avoided her and fallen back into old habits as if the war hadn’t happened, as if she hadn’t been granted immortality and great power only to have the latter ripped away from her, as if he hadn’t had his wings shattered twice and expected death, gone running onto the battlefield arms wide open and a grin on his face. 

“I heard some rumors about your time in Scythia,” He starts, unwilling to let her go, to leave her be. She doesn’t want to hear what he has to say. “I heard that you made friends with one of the generals there.” 

Something inside her snaps.

“And why do  _ you _ care?” The rise and fall of her chest quickens, “Why does it concern  _ you _ ? Why does  _ my every move _ have to involve you, Cassian? I did my job. I followed every rule in the book and made a few of my own. Rhysand approved all my decisions. So  _ why do you care _ ?” 

She’s not sure she’s ever said his name aloud, not without some insulting title following it. Her heel squeaks on the wooden flooring as she turns and struts away from him, careful to recollect the poise she’d lost in those moments. 

A hand gently catches her wrist, the grip loose enough that she could rip herself away quite easily. But she doesn’t. She’s not sure why. A shaky breath falls from her lungs as she turns back to see Cassian once again, some sort of devastation laced in the strong planes of his face. 

“I care about  _ you _ , Nesta.” He answers her, an incredulity to his tone as if he can’t believe that she doesn’t already realize that little fact. “I care more about you than any of the shit that happens as a result of this war. I heard about what happened and I guess that was my shitty way of being concerned.” 

She can only stare at him as if the answers to every question she’s ever asked lie in his features. There are so many things she wants to shout at him, so many things she wants to scream, and scream, and scream about. She wants to ask why he’d left her, why he’d avoided her and then sought her out once again like a child who’d had their forgotten toy taken away. 

She’s so tired. 

“I appreciate your concern, Commander.” The words are cold, formal, ones she’d spoken a million times in Scythia, usually followed by a contradicting retort. 

But this is not a war room, and she does not owe the bastard anything. Not one single part of herself does she owe him. 

When she walks away this time, he doesn’t stop her. 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by an answer by @modernbookfae on tumblr  
> also inspired by the song 'wasteland' by against the current  
> come scream at me on tumble @feyreofthewildfire  
> kudos and comments help me want to write! leave something if you'd like


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